


Run In

by eyemeohmy



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Gen, gen - Freeform, just gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemeohmy/pseuds/eyemeohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rung meets a fan. Maybe his *only* fan. And it shocks the Hell out of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run In

**Author's Note:**

> I was talking about this scenario with a friend, and just had to write it out. So, here it is!

Rung was never one for parties, or big social events.

It wasn’t as if he were socially awkward, or extremely uncomfortable among large groups of people. It was simply a matter of not fitting in.

Which was also quite literal.

Often times, people would bump into him; they didn’t see him, forgot he was there. It was like trying to move a mountain to get through the crowds. Rung spilled at least five drinks each time someone accidentally knocked him over or stepped on his foot or some other crash collision during every party.

Most party-goers weren’t very interested in the things Rung had to say. Mostly work related; he didn’t get out much. Didn’t have as much exposure to this lifestyle as the majority of the people here. They got bored, usually, and he’d heard pretty much every excuse in the book: 

"That’s fascinating! Excuse me a minute, I need to go get another drink." 

"Wow! Awesome! Oh, my friend’s here, I gotta go!" 

"That’s great, but my HUD warns me a fire has gone off in my tanks, so I should probably go fix that."

Still, sometimes it was nice to just… be among people. To have that comradeship when he’d spent weeks locked up in his office, working on patient charts and studies, and his only company were neurotic, paranoid, clinically depressed, or very easily offended and angry clients. Usually it was a coworker who insisted Rung join them out on the town; usually about ten minutes into the party, aforementioned friend had disappeared to hang out with his own friends, or just get away from work which seemed to follow Rung wherever he went.

Rung figured over time his colleagues would just stop trying.

Observing people was fun, too. It helped hone his skills as a psychotherapist. He could easily diagnose a handful of people by the end of a party. Though only once did he actually approach someone he suspected of suffering from an inferiority complex and somewhat crippling abandonment issues— They promptly called him a “crackpot,” threw their engex in his face, and threatened to file a restraining order.

So, yeah, Rung decided not to make that same mistake again.

Either way… It was getting late. Rung checked his chronometer. He’d been here an hour, just people-watching. At one point, it seemed someone was going to come over and talk to him, but then they saw his face and his rather ridiculously large glasses (which, Rung assumed, they thought made up his design as a permanent fixture—nothing new), gave him a weak smile, and turned right back around.

Rung finished his third cube of engex. He felt a little buzzed, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He didn’t like getting drunk at social gatherings. He did that once, too—and woke up an hour later on the sidewalk with profane words and doodles all over his body. Took two days to get that awful paint off.

So, yeah, Rung decided not to make that same mistake again, too.

Rung sat his cube aside, stood from his lonely table at one corner of the bar. He adjusted his glasses, invented; welp, here he goes. He started into the crowd, head held up high, determined not to get more than one or two elbows in the face tonight.

Rung had managed to worm around three mechs before weight smashed against his side, throwing him easily onto the ground. The back of his head hit someone’s leg; said someone cursed at him before stepping aside, refusing to help the poor guy back up. He also heard a quick, embarrassed “I’m sorry!”, but not directed at him: rather the person he fell against.

Kind of sad, since they weren’t the one who—

"I’m so sorry!"

Now that.

That was directed at him.

And, unlike the first apology, it was much more sincere and concerned.

Rung looked up just as a purple-grey hand reached out to him. He fixed his glasses, raised his head another inch to meet the nervous expression on his “assailant’s” face.

"Are you okay?" Nautica asked, biting the corner of her bottom lip.

Rung smiled, weakly. “Quite fine,” he assured. He took her hand; her grip was tight, and he reeled when she easily yanked him back onto his feet. “I’m sorry.” He brushed off his legs, recomposed himself.

"Why? I’m the one who bumped into you," Nautica replied. She rubbed the back of her helm, her visor slipping into place over her bright, burning optics. "I wasn’t watchin’ where I was dancing, heh…"

"It’s nothing, really; no—"

"Wait! Wait, I know you!"

Rung’s optics widened. He stared at Nautica, confused.

"Pardon?"

Nautica squinted, studying the smaller ‘bot. “Yeah, I definitely know you!” she insisted. “You wrote a book, didn’t you? Or something.”

Rung swallowed. “I— Yes, I have. Written a book, that is.”

Nautica beamed, optics shimmering. “Yeah! Your face was on the back of the book! That’s how I know you!” she laughed. She snapped her fingers, pointed at the baffled Cybertronian. “R… Rung! You’re Rung! The bot who wrote _Rungian Theory_!”

Rung was rendered speechless. He felt as if he’d just been body-slammed into the ground. His mouth opened, closed. It was— He’d never met another soul—let alone one he did not know—who knew about his work. Who remembered he wrote it. “… Yes,” he said, almost breathless, “yes, I— Yes, I wrote the _Rungian Theory_. I’m… Excuse me, you called me what again…?” Because it had to be some sort of crazy coincidence or error that she _also_ got his name right.

"Rung. It’s Rung, right?"

Oh, God, and she even _remembered his name, too_. Was he… was he unconscious? Did he hit his head too hard when he was knocked over? Was this a dream? … Was he dead?

"… Yes." His smile widened. The shock turned to pure joy. "You—you remember my name? You read my book?"

"How could I not? It is the _Rungian Theory_ , which created the _Rungian_ analysis, after all. And I’ve read it at least ten times!” Nautica laughed. “It’s very interesting. You’ve got some fascinating theories. I mean, I don’t agree with all of them—but you do draw many good points.”

Rung didn’t care if she disagreed with some of his methods. “You’re interested in the field of psychology?”

"Not really, no," Nautica answered, bluntly. "I’m just what you’d call a bibliophile. I love books! I practically live off of them."

Rung laughed. “I’m somewhat of a self-proclaimed bibliophile myself.”

"Really!?" Nautica practically squealed. "It’s not often I meet many people who enjoy reading. But, I suppose, being an author, it is a staple part of your personality."

"You could say that."

Nautica smiled, sweetly. She paused, studied the dance floor before glancing back down at Rung. “Hey, you wanna go some place quiet? This setting isn’t exactly the best spot for intellectual conversations.” She snorted, unimpressed. “And some place that actually serves _good_ engex.”

Rung was flabbergasted—flabbergasted and flying high. “I’d love to… What was your name again? I don’t believe I caught it. My apologies.”

"Oh, sorry! That’d be my fault!" Nautica replied. "Kinda hard to think with all this music blaring in my audiols." She reached out a hand, squeezing his shoulder in a proper greeting. "Nautica! From ‘nautical,’ because I turn into a deep-water sub." She snickered. "I dropped the ‘l’ because I prefer words that end with a low front unrounded vowel sound. Phonetically, I just think it’s more pleasing, do you know what I mean?"

Rung smiled, tenderly. “Yes,” he retorted a moment later, “yes, I do.”

"Finally someone who does! You’ve got great taste, Rung. _Rungian Theory_ , right? Run-gi-un…”


End file.
